


The Iceman's Past: Russia

by WildRedRose14



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: M/M, Mycroft's Past, Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildRedRose14/pseuds/WildRedRose14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lot's of bits of his trip are missing but you get the idea.... </p><p>When Mycroft comes back his Ice man composure is nearly perfected. </p><p> </p><p>This is all for MY Mycroft btw: http://mycroft-holmes-rp.deviantart.com/</p><p>From the most excellent RP group: http://sherlockbbc-rp-da.deviantart.com/</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Iceman's Past: Russia

Dibs and drabs still follow Mycroft even today. 

So many years ago yet still relevant, that bitter, slicing wind so cold it didn’t just steal the oxygen from your lungs but froze you so you could barely take another breath still sweeps over him occasionally and the memories parade past in a jumble.  
Then again, it is something that changed Mycroft to his core….his mother did not recognise him on his return, but then, she never was able to say the right thing at the right moment. 

Some words you cannot say around Holmes without him sitting a little straighter, or his eyes flicking to the one who said it, and I’m not talking about his ability to pick up on when some-one is hiding something or giving a duel meaning.

I mean Mycroft would react entirely on his own part to certain triggers….a downside to an almost flawless memory.

Bourbon. 

Lemon drops. 

Green springs amusement park. 

But one that will always have him listening, is Russia. 

Mycroft was in his middle twenties, his father having helped him get a place as right hand man of an eminent politician whom shall remain nameless, and Mycroft worked hard.  
His chubby slightly ruddy complexion made him look younger than he was and he was not the man you see today. He was already incredibly reserved, but he would smile.  
He would chat, if talked to, and he would even make jokes.  
He was, and is, incredibly witty.  
He was told, very firmly, that he would go to Russia with his Boss.  
He asked for how long and was told 2-4 years, and it was made clear he could quit or go along.  
Mycroft kissed his mother good-bye and, with Sherlock past his teenage years of drug-abuse and hatred of the World and everything in it for the most part, he hoped they would be alright and left his fair Homeland for another place. 

He was not prepared for the Russian Motherland. 

The cold was nothing he had experienced ever before.  
He was shivering after two steps from the plane, colder than he had ever been in his entire life; the cars were heated, and that was a God-send, but all too soon he was forced out of the car and into the hotel; four star, of course.  
His Boss then told him that, due for his own protection, both of them would be separated and both would have a security team. Mycroft asked why and his boss laughed at the naïve boy.  
“Because we will most likely be the target for many an assassination plots…..Holmes, every story you have heard of the KGB, the political murders, the torture, presume it all to be true whilst you’re here, hmm? Your team is in your room, waiting for you.” 

Mycroft’s ears were still ringing from the cold, hurting down to the bone from the cruel chill and so he entered his room trying not to seem terrified, or crestfallen, and two of the three men who watched him either didn’t notice or didn’t care. But one did…

Mycroft can still recall him perfectly, except for his voice.  
He knows whatever his memory has provided him with is wrong…..human minds hold onto a voice after a person is gone for a mournfully short amount of time. 

But he remembers that metallic blonde jarhead whose body was that of an impressive thirty odd year old, but his face was weathered, scarred, and wrinkled so his age became far more indistinguishable if you were not of a Holmes type mind. 

The man had pastel green eyes that were harsh and hard like every other man Mycroft seemed to meet….it was like the landscape forced the people to become as harsh as it.  
His lower lip was larger than the top and drooped slightly……he always had a touch of stubble somehow, barely a few days old……his eye-brows were thick, but not bushy or as ridiculous as some of the other men he had seen, as if small animals were sitting upon their Neanderthal like ridge above piggy eyes, cowering for warmth. No, this man had large, expressive eyes, Mycroft could tell, and yet the man had a large amount of control over his emotions…..he had a deep scar that left an indent above his left eye going from the top of his hairline diagonally down to stop just above the middle of his brow, and one of his ears had clearly had been damaged…..a chunk was missing. Mycroft could tell it wasn’t a knife wound…..burn perhaps? But there was definitely burn scars starting at the bottom of the left side of his neck, just above his collarbone.

The man turned, lit a cigarette without Mycroft’s permission, and stared at the shorter man with some distaste silently until Mycroft felt he had to demand what the man was looking at.  
“…….some English rich pig-boy who is not ready for this. You sleep now, in hour we leave.”  
And the guards did not leave as Mycroft slept in the other room either.

Time passed slowly, and, thankfully, the man took Mycroft to the shops and informed him that “the stupid English should wear...er……..warming coat” and so Mycroft bought a new wardrobe to bear Russia’s icy rebukes every time he dared go outside.

After that he was simply informed what to do by text by his Boss and escorted to different buildings where he would sign things, or stand around…it became clear what he was; a distraction…..a bloody sitting duck to keep his boss safe.

It shook his nerves to the core after the first attempt on his life.

It was a bungled attempt….street rats and little more he was informed. One of the men dis-armed the twenty odd year old with a knife and started to beat him savagely to the point where Mycroft told them to stop but a hand clamped down on his shoulder and the green-eyed man whom he still hadn’t pointedly asked the name of gave him a long, steady look. “He is example. Others not try if he bleeds.” He stared at the beating like a bored man flipping through TV channels.  
Mycroft’s respect for the man’s emotionlessness rapidly turned to a sort of fear as he realised that this man, in many ways, was better than him. Admittedly, Mycroft was not built for this….entering a new building he was expected to act superior, stand tall and be calm at everything thrown at him and he was good at that. However, now, after another attempt which had got one of his team shot through the cheeks and neck, bullet drilling into the pillar at Mycroft’s side as he stood, frozen in fear watching blood fly and his guard's gurgling scream as he fell away from the man wielding an assault rifle who was promptly tackled by another whilst green-eyes grabbed his wrist and smacked it off the corner of the large, stone steps in the lobby until the gun clattered and then there was an audible crack as he broke his wrist….it was unnecessary, but his friend had been shot. People ran about screaming still as the aggressor beneath the two others stopped moving and Mycroft realised he hadn't been kicking his legs just to try and get free….he had been being smothered. 

Green eyes rose and ordered the man to attend to the other as security guards jogged over and Mycroft was jerked from his rigidness by a hand on his shoulder and green-eyes was standing close, staring into his eyes, keeping his gaze off the carnage of three security guards and his own bodyguard bleeding out, choking and gurgling on his own blood.  
“You did well.”  
Mycroft blinked and realised he had frozen right in the way of danger….surely that wasn’t good at all was it? He should have leaped for cover?  
“Lots piss pants first time.” The man smiled at Mycroft and gave his shoulder another reassuring squeeze and Mycroft stared at this show of comfort.  
“What’s your name?”  
Green-eyes stared at him for a long time.  
“Vasily.” He said and then promptly left to go over to his now-dead colleague.

The other one Mycroft learnt was Marat, and the dead man use to be Leonid.  
They replaced him with a somewhat withdrawn man called Oleg, but brought in another as, Vasily said, they did not realise how many people wanted the little Englishman dead.  
Mycroft wasn’t even that short around these men but he was use to the putdowns by now.  
Hell, in the first week Vasily had kept calling him “Принцесса” to which Marat told him was princess, though Holmes knew. He used the fact that they didn’t know he spoke Russian to his advantage in such situations, listening to them talk about past Military days and what they really thought of him.  
The new arrival was happy to see Marat and Vasily though, as he flung his hands up in the air and the other two cried his name and there was much manly patting on backs and shaking of shoulders to prove he was alive. This new-comer, Nikolay, was skinny compared to the others, and practically grey, dark grey hair and grey skin and grey eyes, and rather tall as compared to Marat who was the shortest next to Oleg.  
Marat had hair so rich brown it looked dyed and eyes to match, whereas Oleg had hair closer to Vasily’s hair colour and dark blue troubled eyes that spoke of murder.  
Mycroft rarely spoke to them but, after a good half a year, Marat kept asking him questions; about home, England, family and so on. Mycroft didn’t reply fully but he asked back and Nikolay joined in. Vasily often didn’t say much as Oleg just sat in a corner humming to himself. 

In the second year they grew closer.  
Mycroft realised being abrasive was getting him no-where so he made sure they knew when they could drink (only when they would remain in the hotel room the next day) which they greatly appreciated as before he had complained but now he was invited to join, to see if the Englishman could take his vodka. Proper vodka.  
Good God that vodka.  
Apparently, though blitzed, he did well…………probably seeing as My had the habit of binging when in serious trouble anyway. They laughed, sang, and Mycroft even revealed he could speak Russian.  
“Very good! Da!” They crowed at him and laughed whilst he babbled and they taught him a drinking song that was not decent in the least. Mycroft tried to teach them a few words of English but by then Marat was unconscious/asleep, Vasily’s eyes weren’t really focusing and he was staring into space, Oleg had gone to bed earlier clutching bottle and Mycroft “went to sleep” soon after.  
Nikolay was a hardcore alcoholic it seemed as the next day he seemed refreshed by the night’s drink, rather than wincing his way round the apartment. 

They taught Mycroft how to fight.....he had had minimal training and the Russian's demanded efficiency, so showed him how to move, how to strafe, and so on.  
They gave him a pistol and told him he had it on him always; pissing, eating, sleeping, it did not matter.

After that they were somewhat more relaxed around each other......Marat showed an interest in learning English words and so, with little to talk of, they babbled for hours. Nikolay too was interested but he didn’t take part so much….strangely, it was Oleg and Vasily who were avid listeners to Holmes’ words of wisdom.  
He daren’t ask Oleg why but, in the end, he asked Vasily.  
“I wish to get- uh, leave Motherland….just short time. See world! See England, perhaps?” And he gave Mycroft the largest smile Mycroft had managed to coax from him before.  
“Perhaps.” Mycroft replied with a small, balanced, cautious smile of his own.

The final attempt happened some-time at the start of the final year.  
By then Mycroft had become attached to his squad…..he knew Nikolay was some sort of war hero, divorced, five kids and some grandchildren, Marat had a fiancé, Vasily had had a string of beautiful lovers apparently but all had ended horribly, and Oleg, much to the surprise of every-one but Nikolay, had a wife and two daughters. 

None of the team died and Mycroft was hit in the back with some shrapnel but all was well.  
After the team asked why Mycroft was even in Russia……they knew it was some covert Political shit and, as always, Mycroft looked to Vasily. 

He had grown very close to the man…..he may have been cold, but his smile lit up his harsh face and he was, actually, incredibly gentle and, laughably, fond of flowers.  
“We do not get lots in Russia…..England has many, da?”  
Mycroft had spent some time talking of the gardens of the estates he use to visit at home, and even his own Estate. Vasily was appreciative and the two spoke more than any other in the group. 

Vasily stared at him with curiosity and Mycroft gave under the light pressure of the man he had come to deeply admire and be very fond of. Holmes mostly spoke in Russian and had done for a long time. “I do not fully know. I am but an assistant really and have not been given access….”  
“So you don’t even know why you’re here?” Vasily asked gently.  
“No. No I don’t….”  
“That’s shit! Being taken from home and told you’re a target!” Marat flung himself back in his chair from where, like the others, he had been leaning forward conspiratorially.  
“Sounds like England is more like Russia than I thought.” Nikolay said and took out a cigarette and lit up, starting another wave of the men taking out cigarettes. When Mycroft put the cancer stick between his lips, Vasily glanced at the others.  
“…….Mycroft.” It was rare any-one but he used his first name, and never in public. He was always, “Englishman!”, “Holmes”, or occasionally “princess”; a nick-name which he has accepted with good grace.  
“…..we would just like to say………….”  
“Thank you!” Marat was the first to abandon his pride, the youngest and most friendly leading the way as always. Nikolay nodded.  
“For what?” Mycroft was shocked.  
“You are a good man compared to others.”  
“This is the best job we have had in years, right?”  
They all nodded, even Oleg.  
Mycroft was close to tearing up.  
These men had escorted him through gang-wars where alleys were alive with gunfire, pushing his head down and keeping him safe. They had scared off men that looked terrifying to Crofty (though he didn’t show it and Vasily’s hand on his shoulder was always more than enough to make him brave) and laughed with him. 

They were the closest things to friends Mycroft had had since school. 

He breathed in a deep, wavering breath and they all seem affected, Vasily sitting forward still, hands clasped together, his brows drooped. Marat was looking this way and that, shifting and he sniffed, nudging his nose with the back of his hand to stay in control whilst Nikolay dragged on his cigarette like he was going to die.  
“….you……..” Mycroft cleared his throat from the treble and they all smiled, trying to stay tough for pride’s sake. “You have all been the most amazing guards I have ever met……Russia is lucky to have such people working for it. I…..I-I will miss you once I go back home.”  
There were more emotional, nervous guffaws of laugh as that.  
“We will miss you too Princess.” Nikolay broke the silence and Oleg burst into laughter, as did the others and the conversation started to flow again. 

When it was time to leave, Mycroft shook Marat’s hand and he didn’t seem to want to let go, staring with starry eyes. “Good-bye Sir.”  
They had not called him Sir as they should of till this moment and it made Mycroft smile.  
“Good-bye Sir.” Nikolay’s handshake was firm, stiff, and he gave a salute. “It's been a pleasure.” And he gave him a wry smile.  
Oleg shook his hand. “Take care of yourself….you haven’t got us watching out for you now!”  
“I doubt I will find better guards.” Mycroft returned in a cracking voice and they all laughed and agreed with pompous smiles.  
He took Vasily’s warm, calloused hand and Vasily’s other clasped round his and there was something in it. It was cool….metal.  
“…….you be careful Princess. I will miss our talks.” That was all Vasily seemed to be able to manage as his mouth worked but words failed and Mycroft merely nodded emphatically and they stared for a long time at each other.  
Mycroft was called for and both men started back almost guiltily, Mycroft’s hand closing round his new gift and hand sneaking into his pocket subtly.  
“Perhaps I will see you in England?”  
“Perhaps.” Vasily replied warmly. 

Mycroft made sure he was on the plane for an hour before he pulled the gift from his pocket…………..it was a metal lighter, engraved. It had been warmed from being in Vasily’s pocket for so long he realised and he ran his hand over the groove of the letters and now, hiding in the back of first class, he started to cry silently.

 

Mycroft did not see Vasily in England.  
He flew back to Russia and, by chance, bumped into Oleg and Vasily at a conference….they were guarding some-one.  
Vasily did not hold back and hugged Mycroft.  
Oleg made some excuse and left and the men stepped back, shamed a little.  
“….how are Marat and Nikolay?”  
They were well, Mycroft asked Vasily how he and Oleg were and they chatted for the good part of the conference, barely separating, enjoying each other’s company rather than the political, schmoozing men in suits around them.  
“…....Vasily, I have been staring I believe but……………..your hair.”  
Vasily’s hair was in a short ponytail.  
“…..yes?”  
“When did you stop cutting it?”  
“Why?” Was the amused answer.  
“Because you look like a Russian hippie and I’m not sure if that exists.”  
It was not funny, but Vasily laughed.  
“….I am going to town tomorrow, I should have it cut. Would you like to join me?”  
“Yes, of course.”  
And the two did not act as though one had told the other to cut off years’ worth of hair, and then the long-haired fool asking the other to part from his official business for a shopping trip. 

Vasily had his hair cut and the two wandered the markets, and Mycroft bought furs for mother and trinkets for Sherlock. He was happy back in the freezing embrace of Russian air that he had grown accustomed all those years ago. They had lunch together amicably and then Vasily asked if Mycroft would care to see his apartment, to which Mycroft seemed surprised that Vasily lived in this area, rather than being surprised at being asked to his home.  
Vasily’s apartment was more suited to that of an artist or poor man, Mycroft thought….the floor was wooden and the walls cream. Bits and bobs were every-where though three large bookshelves which Mycroft spent time running his fingers over the spines of books as he read them, Vasily leaning back on his sofa, smoking as he watched the other man investigate his house like it was the normal thing to do. Vasily was smiling, eyes half-lidded.  
The kitchen was small, and Mycroft refrained from opening the fridge….the bedroom was in the same room as the living area and kitchen and was but a double mattress on the floor.  
“First wife took the hand-carved bed I made her…..she managed to swing it saying that I had made it for her, so it was hers.” He shook his head and, from past conversations, Mycroft knew that was when he was barely a teenager.  
“You have an artist’s soul Vasily.” Mycroft commented lightly.  
“So I’ve been told.” Vasily put his large hands to the back of his neck. “I am going to shower, get this hair off, make yourself at home.” And he stood and walked into what Mycroft managed to glimpse was a horrible green bathroom, but it had plenty of space, and shut the door. Mycroft turned on the radio and walked out on to the balcony….the view was astounding, over-looking the market, but on the top floor of one of the tallest buildings so could see over many of the others to some of the other sights beyond. Vasily constantly surprised him….

Mycroft wandered close to Vasily’s bed, hovering, as if this was an act too intimate, and, considering he could tell Vasily had not had a lover in this bed for a long time just as Vasily had claimed…..perhaps it was. 

He returned to the bookshelf and poured over the books again, pulling a few out and then replacing them before making it half-way to the sofa when the door opened and Vasily took two steps from the bathroom half-covered in a towel, broad, muscular, hairy chest bear and damp and he rubbed his head with a smaller towel before chucking it back into the bathroom and stared at Mycroft almost expectantly.

In the back of his mind Mycroft had always had known, but it was just as natural as any other choice he had made around Vasily all day as he walked over to the man and, with all calmness gone, pressed his face to the other man’s in a heated kiss which Vasily instantly reciprocated, arms wrapping round each other’s bodies, hands moving, exploring, and the two gave sway to passion. 

Both lay smoking for a while, then Mycroft rolled and both lay holding each other without words and then Vasily rose and promised to make a home-made dinner that may be edible if Mycroft was lucky.  
Mycroft had a long shower and wondered how stupid he was for this because he knew he felt strongly for the Russian….he put his clothes back on and Vasily was dressed now also and serving up.  
A few mouthfuls in and Mycroft paused.  
“…..what now?”  
Vasily glanced up, both of them nervous.  
“…..I do not know. I…care for you-“  
“Me too.” Mycroft blurted, simply relieved to have heard it and there was another pause to let this settle in. “….come back with England with me?”  
Vasily shook his head. “I could not leave my homeland.”  
Mycroft paused and continued eating. Half a plate later and he stopped again.  
“Then I shall come here.”  
Vasily looked up suddenly, shocked. “Mycroft…” He was certain Mycroft was like him….he could not leave England, could he?  
“Vasily, I will come here. There is always need of more English politicians here……I could get my Russian bodyguards back. Stay here with you?”  
Both froze, deep in thought.  
It sounded…..good. Very good.  
Ideal, even. 

Mycroft did not tell mother.  
Sherlock knew something was up but he fled home with a few possessions before anything could be worked out claiming his stay in Russia had been elongated.  
He lived with Vasily for another year, not moved in, merely a transition period where they grew accustomed to each other…..where Mycroft was trying to sort changing his job and finding the others.  
Marat and Nikolay and Oleg finally showed.  
Nikolay had a new scar pulling his eyebrow out of shape but they were all ecstatic and was Mycroft and Vasily. 

These are the days that pain Mycroft still. 

The days he was Vasily would talk for hours….literature, science, politics, about each other…..the day Vasily laughed and told Mycroft he had been christened Valery but he changed his name and when Vasily called Mycroft “his English rose”….

 

It ended during a turf war, of all things.  
Roused in the night the two woke to the sound of gunfire and the two found each other’s hand though half-asleep still and they woke. They stayed awake all night listening to the sound of them fighting.  
“……the gangs have never ventured this far from the slums.”  
Not that they were that far but still.  
That day they went out to see what had happened. The market was practically abandoned, bodies being cleaned up….

The next night it happened again and the next day they went out again…..then some individuals started a gunfight and Mycroft and Vasily’s hand leapt into each other’s again and both ducked behind a wall for cover. Mycroft’s breathing was ragged, heart thumping.  
“…….Jesus, that was close.” He smiled in relief, though the gunfire was but round the corner from them. Vasily did not move.  
Mycroft said his name and saw he was clasping his stomach, breathing more than just scared ragged…he sounded like a fish out of water.  
“No, no, NO! God no! Vasily!!!” Vasily’s legs gave way and Mycroft finally saw how much blood loss there was. “Vasily!” He screamed again, falling to his knees at his side, own hands covering Vasily’s already bloody hand from staunching the flow.  
Vasily’s other hand went to Mycroft’s shoulder and they were both crying, Mycroft sobbing.  
“My…….”  
“No! No don’t bloody say it you are fine! You are fine!”  
“Don’t phone an ambulance….it’s not a through an-nd through………” He coughed and blood ejected from his throat and Mycroft flinched as Vasily’s body shook. He knew what vasily meant….he meant organs were damaged. He had minutes left with him.  
“No, Vasily……please………” He didn’t know why he was begging. Vasily’s face was whiter than he had ever seen……ghastly, grotesque, and twisted in pain. Blood dripped from his lip and he was so different from those mornings where Mycroft would wake to his lover bathed in the warm light of the morning.  
“…..I was going to marry you.” Mycroft said it with a certainty, one hand covered in Vasily’s own blood going to Vasily’s face, cupping his cheek that was losing its warmth and was sweaty.  
“I w-was….” He coughed again, breathing now so harsh it made it hard for him to talk…..nearly gone. “G-gonna make you a bed.”  
Mycroft laughed though didn’t know why and it ended in painful, body-shaking sobs that tore from his lungs. He kissed Vasily with a sudden, gentle fervour.  
“Vasily……Vasily please don’t go………………….no, please, don’t. D-don’t leave me here Vasily please don’t leave me here, oh God-“ He hiccupped a sob, vision blurred.  
“Ssshh-“ It turned into a gurgle as blood was filling his throat and his voice was a strained, bubbly raspy whisper as Vasily fought with everything he had left of his failing spirit to speak to his loved one. “My o-one and only ....... I love you. B-be-“ Another gurgle, louder, and his breath was rattling hollowly. “-be brave.”

Mycroft’s heart stopped beating, the world stopped turning, and he broke out in a cold sweat as in one last effort Vasily closed his green eyes.  
His hand fell from Mycroft’s shoulder.  
“Vasily?” A whisper in this frozen world of hurt, like a curious child uncertain and scared. He took his hand from Vasily’s cheek leaving smeared finger-painting of blood and moved to the neck he had enjoyed kissing and biting so much and found no pulse there. “VASILY?!” 

He was gone. 

His Vasily was gone. 

Forever.

“VASILY NNNNNOOOOOOOOO!!!! PLEASE, GOD, VASILY I LOVE YOU COME BACK TO ME I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU, YOU CAN’T BE DEAD, NO!!!!” He pulled the empty soldier’s body to him, devoid of the artistic, poetic soul of his lover to light up its features and he wept, screamed, cursed, and kissed the body.  
The police arrived, tried to take him from it. He fought for a while but finally moved away, standing and weeping still, back to the police, facing police car, hand over eyes as if blocking the sun but instead hiding his pain.  
The police took his statement.  
He went back to Vasily’s flat and stayed there for four days.  
He checked himself to a clinic.  
He was kept there six months, diagnosed almost suicidal and certainly manic with grief. 

When Mycroft came home he was another man.

**Author's Note:**

> After Vasily, he doesn't have any other relationships until Koren, except for two times when an eff-buddy demanded faithfulness....he didn't think them worth it, he did not love them, so cheated on them both.  
> And to clear things up, Vasily is, and always will be Mycroft's soul-mate, but this is not insulting; Mycroft loved all his long term lovers greatly, because they were right for him at different times, matching to different aspects of Holmes.  
> Vasily practically is young Mycroft.....that harsh, wild, free poetic part of him that is Vasily is dead, locked deep away inside of Mycroft. 
> 
>  
> 
> This is all for MY Mycroft btw: http://mycroft-holmes-rp.deviantart.com/
> 
> From the most excellent RP group: http://sherlockbbc-rp-da.deviantart.com/


End file.
